


This Too is Ours

by DrowningByDegrees



Series: Music Prompts [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Frottage, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, This is very sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:08:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28212927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowningByDegrees/pseuds/DrowningByDegrees
Summary: They fit like they were made for basking, tangled up with each other in the comfort of a warm bed while the snow falls outside He could go back to sleep, Jaskier thinks. It’s winter. He might be teaching, but it’s still a break of sorts. If he can’t sleep in now, then whencanhe?Idly, he drags his palm down Geralt’s flank. There’s comfort in the familiar topography of the witcher’s body, and isn’t that a heady thought? Geralt is - hasallowedhimself to be - familiar territory. It seems a silly thing to be so giddy over, but Jaskier smiles as he nuzzles against the nape of Geralt’s neck.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Music Prompts [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026994
Comments: 20
Kudos: 249





	This Too is Ours

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [music prompt list.](https://drowningbydegrees.tumblr.com/post/635071866489438208/music-related-writing-prompts)
> 
> 17\. Ritenuto (Italian: held back)
> 
>  _slow down at once_ ~ **smell the roses, stop before we go any further**
> 
> Technically a sequel to [Nothing But the Background Noise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27825118), but it can stand completely on its own.

Jaskier makes it exactly three steps out the door. Coincidentally the third step is where the bit of roof that shields his doorstep gives way, and where the slightly inconvenient amount of snow he’d stepped into becomes absurd. Scowling, he grumbles under his breath about the lengths he goes to for his students. 

Oh, who is he kidding? Nobody is going to trudge through this for a lecture, not even if he’s the speaker. There’s not a soul even outside besides him, from the looks of it. There’s only the quiet hush that sweeps in with the snow sometimes when there’s no one around to interrupt it. It’s quite beautiful if he’s being honest, almost poetically so. 

Beautiful. And _cold_. If he’s not going to class, there’s really no point in standing there with snow nearly reaching the top of his boots. So for once in Jaskier’s life, he does the sensible thing and goes back inside. 

The house is as quiet as the world outside it, though considerably warmer. As he hangs up his cloak and quietly traverses the stairs, he keeps expecting some sign of life. But the bedroom door is still swung open the way he left it and there is a distinctly witcher shaped lump under approximately all of the blankets, white hair peeking out in long tendrils. 

He’s never gotten to see this before, a time where Geralt finally stops to take a breath. Looking back, Jaskier recognizes the moments now and then that show he’s enough of a fixture in Geralt's life that his presence doesn’t register as a threat. But this is more and he revels in it. Geralt trusts him, recognizes him so instinctively as not to even stir when the bard comes close enough to tuck a stray bit of hair behind his ear. It says more than words ever could. Watching the steady rise and fall of Geralt’s shoulder, Jaskier thinks he’s never been so in love. 

It seems a shame not to indulge a little, since he’s not leaving anyway. Stripping down, Jaskier crawls in on his side of the bed. He fits himself against the slight curve of Geralt’s back and rescuing some of the blanket from the witcher’s clutches. Even then, Jaskier only gets a soft, wordless grumble before Geralt settles once more. 

They fit like they were made for basking, tangled up with each other in the comfort of a warm bed while the snow falls outside. He could go back to sleep, Jaskier thinks. It’s winter. He might be teaching, but it’s still a break of sorts. If he can’t sleep in now, then when _can_ he?

Idly, he drags his palm down Geralt’s flank. There’s comfort in the familiar topography of the witcher’s body, and isn’t that a heady thought? Geralt is - has _allowed_ himself to be - familiar territory. It seems a silly thing to be so giddy over, but Jaskier smiles as he nuzzles against the nape of Geralt’s neck. 

He means to drift off, back towards a well deserved sleep. It’s just that when Jaskier’s fingertips sleepily map out the divot of Geralt’s hip on their way to settle against his stomach, the witcher’s breath hitches ever so slightly. Jaskier might have missed it entirely if he didn’t know Geralt so well, but he _does_ and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t find joy in that too. He knows the subtle shifts in Geralt’s expressions, recognizes the changes in Geralt’s body language as if they were his own, and now there’s this. A sharp, quiet inhale, the very slightest angling of his hips like Geralt’s instinct is to chase after Jaskier even if his mind hasn’t caught up quite yet. 

Jaskier has always thought Geralt was rather beautiful, but it’s all the more true like this. Beautiful and his, and Jaskier is absolutely certain that last bit is never going to stop leaving him a little bit stunned. He grins because he can’t help himself and gently mouths at Geralt’s shoulder, delighting in the shudder it earns him. 

Geralt pulls out of Jaskier’s grip, but only enough to roll over on his back and pull the bard in close. He presses sleepy kisses to Jaskier’s lips, not even bothering to open his eyes as he rumbles. “Thought you had class?”

“‘Had’ being the operative word. Now I don’t, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with me instead.” Jaskier indulges Geralt’s whims for a moment before he strays to nip at the juncture where the witcher’s jaw and throat meet. 

“That’s t-” Geralt’s breath hitches in the most positively satisfying way as Jaskier sucks a bruise into the delicate column of his throat. “Terrible.” 

“The worst. I’m sure. However will you stand it?” They’d been frantic in the beginning, like any moment now this was going to slip away from them, but there’s none of that now. Jaskier maps out the crook of Geralt’s neck with lazy, open mouthed kisses, and Geralt’s fingers curl in his hair so haphazardly that Jaskier would think the witcher was dozing off if he didn’t know better. 

“That is the question.” Geralt breathes out in an amused huff when Jaskier nips at his collarbone. “I imagine I’ll manage _somehow_.”

Jaskier means to say something snarky, but before anything takes shape, he finds himself distracted by the indulgent drag of Geralt’s fingertips down the divot of his spine. It makes Jaskier cant his hips forward and he grins against Geralt’s skin at the quiet, pleasured sound that drags from the witcher. 

It’s encouragement enough for Jaskier to lazily continue his downward trajectory. After all, they’re both here and he’s still thrilled that he’s allowed to do this and Jaskier has every intention of making the most of it. He’s only just begun to map out the rise of Geralt’s chest with his tongue when the witcher reaches out to stop him. Judging from Geralt’s expression it isn’t a ‘not in the mood’ sort of thing, but he treads carefully anyway.

“I had plans for you, witcher,” Jaskier teases. When Geralt hums in acknowledgment and idly pulls at Jaskier’s shoulder, he finds himself biting down on a fond smile. It’s unexpectedly endearing. Geralt’s fingers tighten in his hair, which is far less endearing, but it is very much something _else_ , making Jaskier’s eyes cross and his throat go a little dry in anticipation. 

“Have them up here,” Geralt grumbles, as if Jaskier isn’t already letting himself be herded back to eye level. Somehow, he’s never taken Geralt for much of a romantic, but with the witcher’s hand clasped around the nape of his neck, pulling him close enough to kiss, Jaskier is pretty sure he was just so desperate not to fall in love that he missed it entirely. 

Not that there’s anything particularly innocent about the way Geralt’s legs splay out, heels pressed against the backs of Jaskier’s thighs to draw their bodies flush. There’s a distinct sense of purpose to the cadence with which Geralt’s body arches up to meet his, lined up so that the drag of Jaskier’s cock between their sweat slicked bodies leaves him momentarily breathless. Geralt’s teeth drag playfully at Jaskier’s bottom lip, entirely indecent, but all a bit wondrous anyway.

There are parts of Geralt that have always been Jaskier’s but the shape of this is entirely new. He has known for ages the harsh urgency of Geralt yanking him out of harm’s way, but never the barely restrained clutching of the witcher’s fingers, caught somewhere between reverence and desire. He’s always recognized Geralt’s capacity for tenderness, but has never been the focus of it. Now there are soft, half formed endearments whispered between kisses, and stuttered breaths as Geralt rocks up to meet him and Jaskier has to squeeze his eyes shut in the face of it for fear that he might just fall apart. 

Of all the things that are his now, _this_ is perhaps the one Jaskier cherishes most. Not the sudden tension of Geralt’s body beneath his, though that is overwhelmingly lovely. Not the sharp press of Geralt’s nails scrabbling at Jaskier’s back, surely leaving red marks in their wake and threatening to drag the bard right over the edge with him. It’s the moment Geralt is too undone to hide his own vulnerability any longer. Their pace goes a bit frantic and uneven and Geralt tucks his face against the crook of Jaskier’s neck, breathing out in harsh pants. He mostly tends to be as quiet when he comes as he is in everything else. It would be a shame, but he clings to Jaskier’s back like he might be swept away in some invisible tide, and he stifles a quiet moan with his teeth against Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier wants very, very much to be the source of this particular surrender for the rest of his life. 

Love and pleasure are an intoxicating combination, leaving Jaskier struck stupid with the fleeting notion that if all there was to this was Geralt shaken down to his foundation, it would be enough. Maybe it _would_ even, though the idea is immaterial when he's in the midst of chasing after his own release. Geralt shudders and pulls him closer and even if Jaskier wanted to, there wouldn’t be any holding off.

He doesn’t want to. What he wants is Geralt’s shaky sigh against the sensitive skin just under his ear, a quiet sound that might possibly be a whimper. Jaskier's own climax wrenches Geralt’s name from him like a prayer, whispered desperately against his lover's temple. The pillow caught in his fist doesn’t feel like enough to hang onto, but somehow Geralt’s jaw cradled carefully in his open palm does. 

It's a lovely feeling, this careening off into nothing, but strangely, Jaskier finds what he wants the most is the aftermath. The sweat and come stuck between them is going to be dreadfully unpleasant later, but Geralt noses against Jaskier’s jaw in another one of those tiny, inconsequential gestures the bard collects like a magpie. He can feel the way Geralt’s mouth turns up in a rare smile and somehow the mess feels entirely unimportant when there’s that to think about. 

There are a great many things Jaskier would like to say, but the bridge they've built is new and fragile and now is not the time for grand declarations. He settles for turning his head enough to briefly catch Geralt’s lips against his own. “So, the lesson I’m taking away from this is that I ought to wake you up more often.” 

“Menace,” Geralt grumbles. There’s no bite in it, but even if there were, Jaskier can't possibly mistake it for anything but affection. Geralt is currently dragging the fingers of one hand through Jaskier’s hair, the other coming to rest at the base of his spine like he something precious enough to hang onto. _This_ is the moment Jaskier covets most. No music. No monsters. The whole world narrowed down to something Jaskier feels little need to label.

“Most definitely,” Jaskier agrees solemnly. In a momentary fit of bravery he adds. “Your menace, though.” 

_Yours._ That is... sort of a label, Jaskier supposes. 

But the fallout he braces himself for, the rejection he fretfully anticipates never comes. There's no sudden tension. Geralt’s fingers don’t even go still against Jaskier’s scalp the way he expects them to. As if he knows somehow what Jaskier is afraid of, Geralt affectionately rests his cheek against the bard’s. “Yeah. Suppose you are.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi! You can find me [on Tumblr](https://drowningbydegrees.tumblr.com/) or [ this one](https://drowningbydegrees-fanworks.tumblr.com/) if you're only interested in fanworks.  
> Sometimes, I also exist on [Twitter.](https://twitter.com/DrownByDegrees)  
> 


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